Twelve Years
by NkyOT
Summary: A whirlwind of howling betrayal echoed in the empty cavity of his chest. Twelve years, and it still felt as if his heart had been hollowed out with a spoon, and there was a gaping hole where that mutt's name used to be. Remus/Sirius, Madfoot.


Slash: Remus/Sirius  
>Inspiration: <em>'Moonlight Sonata'<em> by Beethoven  
>www <strong>[.]<strong> youtube** [.]** com/watch?v=c0WMYCtOqeU

**Disclaimer: I Do Not Own Harry Potter**

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><p><em><span>Twelve Years<span>  
><em>_The harrowing loneliness, a whirlwind of howling betrayal, echoed in the empty cavity of his chest.  
><em>_After twelve, long years it still felt as if his heart had been hollowed out with a spoon._

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><p>Remus thought he would never set eyes upon him again; he had truly, honestly believed that. It had been so easy to accept that fact, much easier than it ever would be to let go of the man himself (the grip that he had around Remus' heart was so inexplicably tight that now, even years later, when Sirius was creeping at the corners of his mind, it was hard to breathe).<p>

For twelve long, cold years, he had bundled himself up against howling winds and dark, empty nights, and suffered through the months alone, trying not to think about the young man who had betrayed him, who had betrayed everyone. It hurt to think of him; it hurt so much, because Remus honestly thought he knew Sirius better than anyone, knew he was better than that. But just like his own lycanthropy, which curled its way through his veins like a vicious disease, Remus guessed that the darkness ran too deep within Sirius' blood, deeper in his heart than Remus could've ever hoped to reach. There was no running, no denying, the truths within you; Remus knew that well.

Some nights, he could honestly say he hated him; he hated that he missed the mutt so much it felt like his battered soul would rip in two. He tried not to think about how he could still feel Sirius' hand resting tenderly against his cheek, fingers stroking gently at his brow as he struggled each month with the recession of the full moon. His body had been throbbing and sore, eyes too heavy to open, limbs too heavy to move; but still, every night on the edges of sleep, Remus can recall the echoes of Sirius' soft whispers in his ear, easing the pain away.

The first time they kissed, it was behind a suit of armour on the fifth floor, in the middle of the night. Sirius had suddenly, without warning, pressed his lips fiercely to Remus' own, his fingers latched hard around the other boy's wrist, and it was all teeth and wet, digging tongues, soft gasps and frozen postures, pressed up against each other in a frantic, desperate hold. It was incredible. But then Sirius had avoided him for two weeks, and Remus had wanted to gut himself with a spoon from anxiety.

Those two weeks had nothing on twelve years. God, how Remus hated that man; he was so angry, _so angry, _and incomprehensible with grief. Sirius was a traitor, and a coward; a Black through and through, after all, despite the many times he suffered beneath the scathing remarks of his mother. Remus couldn't help but wonder if he'd done it to make her proud, to ease the pain of having a failure and fucking queer for a firstborn son.

Remus had tried to lock away his feelings, he really had, and for the most part he was able to walk the halls of Hogwarts twelve years later without falling to his knees and screaming. He couldn't stop his heart lurching painfully in his chest, though, as he walked past the armour on the fifth floor. But he managed to push through, he managed to crawl against the pain and the anger and the misery, and for one brief moment he thought he could leave Sirius behind.

But no. Never. They met again, in the Shack where they used to prowl as Moony, and as Padfoot, with Peter and James and their animal minds, and for a moment it was cruelly, callously perfect. But Prongs wasn't there, and Peter was a snivelling, traitorous wreck, and Sirius wasn't the same. He was ragged, and broken, sick skin taut over jutting bones and painfully sharp joints, his lips cracked and pale and a haunting fever in his eyes. He staggered on reedy limbs, body weak and trembling, and this was not a man Remus recognised. He was almost afraid to touch him.

But then, with one soft syllable from those lips, one desperate, imploring gaze accompanied by a forlorn little whine that was so intimately Padfoot, Remus was suddenly seventeen again, locked in a searing kiss with that damn mutt who refused to stop pawing at him and staring at him and smiling in that stupid way that made Remus' heart lurch. And suddenly words were spilling unchecked from between their frantic kiss, twelve unbearable years of anguish falling out on the heels of just seven words: "don't leave me, don't ever leave me." Then he felt Sirius' firm, warm hand on the back of his neck — soothing, comforting, as if it was _he _who was gaunt and ill and trembling, and heard his name in _his _voice for the first time in twelve years, and Remus began to sob.

"Remus." Sirius' fists curled frantically in his jacket, and he whined pitifully, "_Re_mus."

They sat, entangled on the dusty, dirty floor of the old Shack, still for a long time. Sirius didn't say anything else. For twelve long years, all he'd wanted was to say Remus' name.


End file.
